


Stiff Competition

by moonblossom



Series: Fluid Dynamics [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Awkward, Dorks, First Time, Fluff, Frot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermann's not nearly as uptight and repressed in bed as Newt had imagined him to be. He's still Hermann, but he's tolerable here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stiff Competition

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing these fantastic idiots! I hope I did them justice <3
> 
> Huge thanks to [thatworldinverted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted) for looking this over.

One of the best things about being in Hong Kong, Newt thinks, is the food. Even though they're on an underfunded military base, he's never had ma po dofu this good before arriving here. Technically, he's not supposed to be eating in his quarters; something about vermin. But technically, Newt's not supposed to do a lot of things. It hasn't stopped him yet. He shovels in another mouthful of spicy tofu.

Poring over his work notes from earlier, he turns the music up absently. He's still not sure if he actually likes Ukrainian hard house, but the Kaidonovskys had given him the MP3s before Cherno Alpha's last mission, and to Newt, toughing through it feels like memorialising them in a weird way. It rattles the metal frame of the chair he's half-sitting in, half-falling out of, and he nearly doesn't hear the knock on his door.

The knock is stiff and formal and awkward, and Newt doesn't even need to check his peephole to know who it is. He does his best to straighten his t-shirt, the one with an awesome drawing of Mutavore wrapped around one side. He runs his hands through his hair, but it's been a lost cause for hours. Besides, it's not like he _cares_ anyway.

When he opens the door, Hermann is standing there, leaning stiffly on his cane. He's wearing a ridiculous pair of old-man pyjamas, blue cotton with white pinstripes, loose trousers and a shirt buttoned all the way to his throat. His hair is damp, clinging to his forehead and dripping into his squinty eyes. He looks pained, as if standing here like this is killing him.

"Can I, uh, help you?" Newt's trying to ignore all the ridiculous fantasies he's had that started like this. He blames the permanent connection they forged when they drifted together with the infant Otachi. It's much easier than admitting he's actually got anything resembling actual _feelings_ for Hermann fucking Gottlieb. And yet, he steps aside and gestures into his quarters, inviting Hermann in, and his heart pounds a bit in his throat.

"I need to sleep, Newton. I suspected you wouldn't be using your bed."

"So you, uh, want to use it?" Newt shifts. He's aware that he isn't remotely averse to the idea of Hermann, in his improbably adorable grandpa jammies, curled up in Newt's own bed.

"Not while you're in it, obviously. Those new Rangers sharing quarters next to mine. They are, uh... making a lot of noise." The blush on Hermann's cheeks is far too sweet for a man of his stature. How the hell is he pulling that off?

For all his staggering intellect, Hermann often forgets the more basic of human necessities. Like eating. Or washing. Over time, Newt has learned to turn a, well - whatever the nose-related metaphorical equivalent of a blind eye is - to the pong that has built up in some of Hermann's heavier sweaters. And besides, it's not like Newt has never been so engrossed in an experiment that he's skipped his own personal grooming regimen for a few days. Or a week. Okay, okay, ten days. But that was only _one time_!

Right now, though, fresh out of the shower, Hermann smells distracting and interesting. Some kind of minty herbal shampoo; boring, reliable Ivory soap; and under it all the constant, familiar smell of Hermann himself.

Newt realises Hermann's staring at him, still waiting for an engraved invitation, apparently. Nervously, Newt chews the cuticle on his thumb and nods.

"I've got some more reading to do. Go ahead. Not sure when the last time I changed my sheets was though."

There's a flicker across Hermann's face that could be displeasure or it could be amusement. It's hard to tell with him sometimes. He steps over to the rumpled mess that is Newt's bed and straightens it with mathematical precision before folding back one corner.

"I do appreciate this, Newton. Thank you." 

Newt grins and nods before slipping on his headphones and getting back to work. He's just getting into the swing of things when the room is plunged into darkness. He snaps his headphones off and looks around in vain. He's trying to figure out if one of the generators down here has blown or something when he realises what's actually happened.

"Hermann, turn the light back on."

"I can't sleep with the light on."

"This is my room, and I need to work. Turn the fucking light on."

There is an impressively emphatic sigh from the general vicinity of the bed. The light comes back on, and it's casting a soft glow on a strangely hilarious pile of blankets. Hermann's cocooned himself under Newt's comforter in an attempt to block the light out. The laugh that escapes Newt's lips is pitchy, shrill, fond, and should have been embarrassing but Newt doesn't care. 

"You could just go back to your room, you know?"

"And listen to... to..." Hermann pauses, clearly at a loss for words. Newt wonders what exactly the guys in the quarters next to him are even _doing_ in there. He's seen bits of Hermann's mind; the man's not as innocent as he looks. "To _that noise_ all night?"

Newt shrugs. "Your call." Part of him is fighting to remain stubborn and assert his dominance, this is his room after all, but eventually he takes pity on poor Hermann. He flicks on the small desk lamp over his workspace. "Ok, fine, turn the big one off."

There's a grumble from the bed that's a fantastic combination of exasperated and grateful, and Hermann's skinny hand slips out from under the comforter to plunge the room into a comfortable semi-dim.

A strangely comforting domesticity settles around them; Newt focused on his reading and barely fidgeting for once, Hermann peacefully napping in Newt's bed. It feels almost homey, and Newt feels his eyelids drooping. He shakes his head and turns the volume on his headphones up. It'd be shameful for a self-professed insomniac genius to fall asleep at his desk right now, it's barely one in the morning.

He shifts in his chair, neck twinging painfully, and realises that he had nodded off despite his best efforts. He's going to have to start smuggling in some better coffee - all that's left in the commissary is low-caf swill. Newt stares at the lump in his bed and blames Hermann for his lapse. He hasn't quite figured out how it's Hermann's fault that he fell asleep at his desk, but it is. Irrefutably. Something to do with the dim lights, probably. Throwing his circadian rhythms all off.

With a huff, Newt gets out of his chair. He stretches and scratches at the exposed swath of stomach where his shirt pulls up. Something moving in the corner of the room catches his eye and he looks over to see Hermann staring with a nearly-threatening ferocity. Brow furrowed, Newt looks down at his belly.

"Waves, dude. Enoki did them, back in Tokyo." He traces the pattern with one finger when it hits him. Hermann wasn't studying the tattoos. For a moment, neither of them says anything, and suddenly Newt's grateful for the dim light. Blushing isn't cool, and he's glad Hermann can't see him properly.

"Alright, shove over. Even genius rockstar biologists need to sleep sometimes, apparently."

"Would you like the key to my room?" Hermann's voice is sleepy and disoriented, and Newt thinks it might just be the cutest thing he's ever heard, damn it.

"Seriously, Gottlieb? You're trying to kick me out of my own room? For all you know, those two English weirdos are still at it. Nope. I'm sleeping in my bed, and if you've got a problem with it you can go back to your room." _Please go please don't go make up your fucking mind Newton_.

Hermann merely rolls over, shifting to the far side of the bed, and Newt's not sure whether he's relieved or disappointed. No, that's a lie. He can already feel blood moving around in parts of him that really shouldn't be moving around right now. Not when he's about to share a bed with his impossibly irritating and yet weirdly attractive co-worker.

"Stop thinking, Newton. Just get into bed and let me go back to sleep. I can hear you thinking from over here."

Newt freezes. He's heard things about that. Even though they've only drifted once, and in a Pons he built himself (because he's just that freaking awesome), there's still an unbreakable bond now. He remembers the way the triplets moved as three branches of one cohesive unit, the way the Kaidonovskys finished each other's sentences, the way they each responded to both names. To this day, he's still not sure which one was Sasha and which one was Aleksis.

So did Hermann really hear all that? God, he hopes not. He's still processing this train of thought when Hermann laughs. It's a strange sound, one Newt's not used to hearing. It's surprisingly gentle and musical for a man who is all sharp edges and abrupt words, and Newt thinks he'd definitely like to hear it more often.

"It was a figure of speech, Newton. You keep telling me I should use them more often."

There's a flood of relief Newt feels down to his bones. It's going to be hard enough - ha ha - getting into bed with the beginnings of a stiffy, but if he sleeps with his back to Hermann hopefully it won't be a problem. He steps out of his trousers and shoves them under the bed with one foot, makes sure there's no particularly large holes in his boxer-briefs, and debates for a moment about taking his socks off. There's few things less sexy than a man in socks and little else, but fuck it, it's cold down here.

 _And besides_ , the voice in his head admonishes sarcastically, _it's not like you're trying to seduce poor Dr. Gottlieb, right?_. 

He slides into the bed, unaccustomed to the warmth of another body so close. Maybe he should have taken the socks off after all. For a moment, things feel fine. Things feel good. This might actually work, and they might actually just go back to being vaguely antagonistic and brilliant co-workers. And then Hermann's entire body stiffens in panic.

There's a few moments of awkward shifting. It's a bit painful how obviously Hermann's trying to make sure not a single inch of his silly pyjamas end up anywhere near Newt. It shouldn't hurt, but fuck it, it does.

"You know, guy, you've really got to stop being so uptight. I remember from the drift. Everything in your head's like a bloody file cabinet. Live a little!"

It's obvious this is the wrong thing to have said, because somehow, defying the laws of physics and kinesthetics, Hermann tenses up even more. Any further and he'd be able to compress raw carbon into diamonds in his hands, Newt thinks.

"Everything?!" Hermann chokes out, and that's when it hits Newt. No, not _everything_. Absolutely not _everything_. If he'd known sooner, he would have made a move eons ago.

"Oh, shit. Shit, Hermann. Sorry. Uh, listen."

Hermann's nearly vibrating now, in shame and anger. He's clambered out of bed and he's scrambling frantically as he leans heavily on his cane, like he's looking for a coat or something to shield himself with. The sheer panic on his face breaks Newt's heart a little bit. He gets up and reaches out, grabs Hermann's flailing free wrist. He looks a bit like a startled baby bird, flapping uselessly about and trying to get free, and Newt can't help it. He leans forward and kisses those lopsided, rude, thin, wonderful lips.

For a moment, an hour, an eternity, Hermann freezes and holds perfectly still. Newt doesn't relent though. He knows they both want this. Knows it more than he's known anything. And Newt knows _a lot of things_. His stubbornness - no, his perseverance - is rewarded when Hermann lets out the quietest, silliest little moan Newt's ever heard and parts his lips.

 _Into the Breach,_ Newt thinks, and snickers. Hermann pulls back, and for a second Newt's worried that he's hurt him, offended him. And considering how much Hermann's been hurt in his life, this it the last thing Newt wants to do right now. And then he raises one eyebrow and giggles back, and Newt feels with an unbreakable certainty that Hermann had the exact same thought. Apparently inappropriate puns about the apocalypse are one of those things that get passed along through the post-Drift connection.

Newt's fingers are still circled around Hermann's lanky, knobby wrist, so when he throws himself backwards onto the bed, Hermann can't help but be pulled down with him. Hermann bumps Newt's glasses with his nose and they both laugh nervously. Hermann reaches out to remove them, and Newt puts a hand up.

"I..." he bites his lip, feeling stupid for suddenly being self-conscious. "I just really, really can't see without them. You have no idea." Because, suddenly, he just really needs to see Hermann's face as he comes. That odd, ferrety face that shouldn't work so well. But it does. It really does. Newt is absolutely desperate to see him completely lose control for once in his life.

This time it's Hermann who gives in to the impulse to kiss. It's painfully sweet, the way he presses one little closed-mouth peck to either side of Newt's mouth before slotting their lips together with a finesse that startles even someone who's seen the inside of his mind. _Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, makeout expert._ Full of surprises.

Newt's cock, which has been steadily pulsing at half-mast since he stripped down earlier, twitches in interest. He freezes, worried this is all going to be too much. Hermann runs his thumb along the rough edge of Newt's jaw and chuckles in a way that is entirely too seductive for his persona. He shifts slightly, looming over Newt, and suddenly there's a familiar and warm weight against Newt's hip. Hermann's way further along than Newt is, which is both a shock and a relief.

"Man, how long have you been nursing that? Why didn't you say something?" He squints up through his glasses, at Hermann's sharp features gone soft and warm in the diffuse light.

"For a man of science, you are not very observant. I've been, as you say, 'nursing' this since I had to listen to those two beautiful idiots in the room next to me. They were being very loud, as I said."

It's an anatomical impossibility, but Newt's certain he feels his heart deflate a little bit. This isn't for him, it's not because of him. He wriggles under Hermann, trying to pull away slightly. As he's fidgeting, he throws his head back and Hermann takes advantage of the situation, licking one long stripe up Newt's jugular. Newt moans and bucks up, at this point willing to take any contact he can get.

"Newton, you really are an idiot. Yes, all that moaning stimulated a physiological response in me. But where did that physiological response _take me_? I could have simply dealt with the problem and put some earplugs in. Or did you think I came into your room in the middle of the night because of the charming ambiance?" He makes a point of eyeing the pile of musty laundry in one corner.

Oh. _Oh._. "So you've been... this was your attempt at a seduction?"

Hermann shifts his weight again and grinds his cock against the soft flesh of Newt's inner thigh, rucking up the leg of his boxer-briefs and bringing him to alarmingly full hardness in one smooth gesture.

"I would say my _attempt_ has been fairly successful, wouldn't you?"

Newt gasps as Hermann's teeth drag lightly across his collarbone. "I, uh... to be scientifically sound you'll have to, uh... attempt it again." This banter thing is getting tiresome. Newt's too distracted at this point to put too much effort into being witty.

"Oh, I intend to." 

There's a catch in Hermann's voice that Newt first takes to be arousal, but he then he feels the bad leg against his own, trembling violently. He reaches up and cups Hermann's jaw in his hands and runs his thumb over his lips, the gesture is alien and tender but it feels like the right thing to do.

"Hey, hey. Your leg. Roll over."

The smile Hermann gives him in return is painfully bashful and a little bit grateful, and Newt mentally smacks himself for not thinking of it sooner. Stupid Hermann being so stubborn about his bum leg. Stupid Newt for forgetting.

They roll over smoothly, Hermann spread flat on his back and Newt now kneeling over his thighs. There should be something hilarious about this whole scenario. But all Newt keeps thinking is that it feels right. It feels like something they should have done ages ago. Maybe Hermann will be easier to work with now. Hah, yeah right.

Newt really wants to nip Hermann's throat right now, but his ridiculous pyjamas are in the way. He leans forward and they kiss again, this time more needy and physical than before. Hermann's tongue coils against Newt's, attempting to assert dominance even here. Newt wraps one hand around Hermann's waist, fingers slipping up under the hem of his cotton shirt, and finds a ribbed undershirt there. He is entirely unsurprised. The man is like an onion, or a voluminous reference text of some sort. A walking monument to the fine art of layering.

Hermann whimpers slightly into the kiss, tongue relaxing as Newt runs the tip of his own tongue along the ridged roof of Hermann's mouth. Newt pulls back slowly, nipping at Hermann's upper lip before trailing eager, biting kisses to the tender spot behind his jawline. He brushes his lips against Hermann's earlobe, which elicits an unreasonably loud moan. They must be sensitive.

To test his theory, he grazes his teeth across the soft pad of flesh, and is rewarded with a sharp, keening moan. Hermann's cock twitches so violently at the motion that it smacks Newt hard in the hip. _Well then_ , Newt thinks. _Hypothesis confirmed._ He sucks hard on the earlobe, sending Hermann into another wailing, twitching fit beneath him. Newt can feel the moisture seeping through the cotton pyjamas, through his own boxers, and his own cock throbs in sympathy, aching all the way through his belly.

"I'm going to undress you now, alright?" He whispers, breath hot and warm against Hermann's damp, sensitised earlobe.

Hermann rolls his eyes and smiles fondly. "You can stop treating me like some sort of wilting flower, Newton. I'm fairly certain I came in here with the express intention of getting you to fuck me. Now get on with it."

Of all the things Newt was expecting to hear tonight, Hermann Gottlieb asking - no, demanding - that he fuck him was not remotely near the top of the list. He groans, pulse pounding furiously in his chest and between his legs. He's flustered, but needs to regain the upper hand here.

"Are you ever going to call me Newt? Everyone else does."

"Do you do this with everyone else then?" Hermann's features cloud over for a moment. _Shit_. Newt's about to panic again when Hermann presses a sloppy, delicious, open-mouthed kiss to his suprasternal notch, pulling his shirt collar aside.

"You've got to stop teasing me like that. It's so fucking _weird_."

Hermann's mumble is infuriatingly non-committal, and it just makes Newt want him even more. "Mmm. I never though kissing a Kaiju would be so pleasurable." It takes Newt half a second to realise that he's referring to the tattoos, not calling Newt an inhuman, alien monster. Albeit a really awesome inhuman, alien monster.

Finally, Newt loses whatever remaining shreds of patience he had left and yanks Hermann's shirt open. Surprisingly cooperative, Hermann lifts himself slightly off the mattress and wriggles out of the sleeves, and lets Newt pull the thin cotton undershirt over his head. His torso is pretty much exactly how Newt had imagined it - pale and lanky, ribs just this side of too visible. His nipples are startling and dark and tiny, interrupting the fair skin like the rivets on a pair of jeans. If Hermann's earlobes were that sensitive, Newt wonders how reactive the rest of him must be. He decides there's no better time to find out than right now.

He drags his teeth down the side of Hermann's throat, his fingers mirroring similar sensations along the side of his ribcage. When Newt's mouth reaches the flat expanse of Hermann's pectorals - well, where his pectorals would be if he had anything resembling normal musculature - he trails his tongue in concentric circles, narrowing towards the dark little nub. Judging by the way Hermann is trembling and breathing raggedly through his teeth, this is feeling just as good as Newt had assumed it would. If not better.

As his lips find their target, Newt swirls his tongue around the nipple, feeling it harden further. He grazes it with his teeth and Hermann yelps, bucking violently under him.

"Noisy, are we? Trying to compete with your neighbours?" He murmurs against the soft skin of Hermann's chest and Hermann huffs, though Newt can't quite tell if it's irritation or desire. He strokes the side of Hermann's ribcage with his thumb, placating him before trailing across his chest to flick the tip of his tongue over the other nipple.

Newt works his way down Hermann's chest slowly, tauntingly, kissing and nibbling at the bottom edge of his ribcage, far too easily felt. He makes a mental note to sneak more ma po dofu into his quarters and make sure Hermann eats some of it next time. He reaches Hermann's navel and licks a thick circle around it, the traces of hair just starting there tickling his tongue.

Hermann is obviously desperate by now; the cotton front of his pyjama bottoms is distended away from his torso, a wet spot of significant size vulgarly outlining the head of his cock. Newt can smell the musk of his arousal from several inches away. He looks up towards the top of the bed, where Hermann's tossing his head back and forth and biting his lip, apparently trying not to whimper or beg, and Newt feels another pang of affection for this strange, antisocial little man.

Pressing his lips to the wet spot, Newt feels Hermann's cock twitch eagerly against his mouth. His own erection throbs again, and he reaches down into his boxers. He'd just had the intention of adjusting himself, but he can't help giving himself a few solid squeezes. He lets out a muffled sigh, his exhalation seeping through the damp cotton and making Hermann groan. Hermann must have a vague inkling of what Newt's doing, and before he gets too engrossed, tugs gently on his shoulder, urging him back up towards the top of the bed. 

Controlling bastard, as usual.

Newt sits up and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of Hermann's pyjama bottoms, pulling them away from his abdomen and down over his hips. He's got blue cotton boxers on underneath, but they're those ridiculously old-fashioned ones that Eastern European grandpas wear while shuffling around the house in their slippers. Newt shakes his head. This is _not_ to be thinking about anyone's grandpa. He stares back at Hermann's boxers, damp and pulling apart at the button fly, giving Newt a frustrating glimpse of the skin underneath.

Slowly, slowly, slower than he ever thought himself possible of moving, Newt pulls Hermann's boxers away and down. Part of him is still terrified Hermann's going to balk and run off. He slides them slowly down Hermann's legs before taking a moment to study the awkward glory that is now lying naked on his bed. Nobody could argue that Hermann was conventionally handsome, and yet right now he is the most gorgeous fucking thing Newt has ever seen.

His eyes, even in the dim light, are bright and eager, lids puffy and heavy with arousal. His chest is flushed bright red, so vivid against his pale skin. His legs are long and lean, the good one surprisingly muscular. Must get a workout compensating for the limp. But most gloriously distracting right now is his cock. It's long, longer than Newt was expecting. Not huge, but still noteworthy. Decently thick too, and right now ridiculously engorged. The head is deep red and glistening, already protruding from his retracting foreskin.

Newt can't help it, he leans forward and licks the shining bead of pre-come away, and Hermann gasps, long fingers clutching the sheets. He coughs, and Newt looks up at him.

Hermann squints at Newt, trembling and earnest, and reaches one hand out, silently offering to undress him. Newt's too impatient right now though, he just pulls the t-shirt over his head and throws it on the floor, kneeling up to shimmy out of his boxers and leaving them tangled around one leg. It's then that he realises he's still wearing his stupid socks, so he shifts, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls them off along with his shorts. He really should have just taken them off earlier, damn it.

Naked, he looks at Hermann, vaguely apprehensive about how he's going to react to seeing Newt's tattoos in all their glory. He knows how Hermann feels about his "obsession" with the Kaiju. But Hermann's mouth, already a bit charmingly crooked, just twists into a fond smile, as if he knew what to expect. Considering the Drift, maybe he did.

He's about to bend down again, to take Hermann back into his mouth and pick up where he left off, when Hermann cuts him off.

"Come up here, please, Newton."

Confused, Newt scrabbles up, crawling over Hermann's prone body. His cock is bobbing awkwardly away from his torso and it brushes against Hermann's thigh. Newt lets out a sharp, embarrassing yelp and Hermann, damn him, laughs again. Newt thinks it's a sound he really wants to get used to.

"Is something wrong? Changed your mind?"

"It's a bit late for that, Newton. I just quite wanted to kiss you, and I couldn't reach you down there."

Now it's Newt's turn to laugh. As he does so, he bends down and lets Hermann pull his lower lip between his own. Newt's never had someone suck on his lip like this, and he thinks his knees might just give out and he'll topple onto Hermann and it'll be terrible and awkward _oh shit stop thinking._

It's Hermann who saves the day again. He coaxes Newt down onto his elbows, rebalancing his weight and closing the gap between their bodies. Suddenly it's feverishly hot, and Newt feels the trickle of sweat pooling in the small of his back. There's a similar trace on Hermann's sternum, and something about it just drives Newt mad with desire. He doesn't even realise he's rocking his hips back and forth until he feels Hermann's fingers, long and agile and shockingly cool, stroking over the head of his cock. His palm slides over the tip, spreading the slick fluid around, and Newt bites back another whimper.

He sucks in a deep breath, expecting (and yet entirely unprepared for) the sensation of Hermann's hand sliding along his shaft. He tries to brace himself up with one arm so he can reach down and take care of Hermann, but he feels fingers twining through his own on the bed, pinning his hand in place. The gesture seems to say _trust me_ , and Newt finds that he does. An inordinate amount. The realisation should be shocking, but it's a strange comfort. They've worked together for years, they've been in each others' heads, and now they're having sex. If he can't trust Hermann at this point, he never will.

As his body sags with the release of tension he didn't realise he'd been holding, Hermann wraps those long, spidery fingers around both Newt's cock and his own, rubbing the lengths of them together. This time, Newt can't hold back the strange noises he's making. He groans and yelps as the entire length of his shaft is exposed to the sensation of velvety skin and mingling fluid.

Without thinking, he ruts against Hermann, which causes him to squeeze tighter around the both of them. He's rocking his hips too, grinding up against Newt. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This shouldn't feel as good as it does. Newt drops his head, kissing and licking at Hermann's throat. The tang of salt and pheromones is strong here, where his neck meets his shoulder, and Newt worries at it with his tongue, feeling Hermann's pulse fluttering so close to the surface. He feels his glasses slipping down his sweaty nose and tries to use Hermann's shoulder to push them back into place.

Hermann releases Newt's hand and brings his arm up, dragging his nails down the length of Newt's spine. The tingling at the small of his back mirrors the electric crackle at the base of his cock, the crawly tightening sensation of his balls pulling up closer to his body. He's almost ashamed of how quickly he's going to come, but if the pained, breathy noises Hermann is making are any indication, Newt's got nothing to worry about.

He drags his teeth down over Hermann's collarbone, and Hermann's hips judder violently. He bucks up at an odd angle, nearly knocking Newt off of him. They manage to straighten themselves out, but barely, just as the first pang of impending orgasm hits Hermann. Newt looks up, making a point of studying Hermann's face. His eyelids are fluttering, eyes rolling back, and his mouth is slack and pink and gorgeous. It's an expression of complete abandon, complete lack of control, and it's the exact thing Newt needs to see. The physicality of their climaxes hit nearly in perfect unison, one massive pulse between them. Newt manages to wonder if the connection forged between them has something to do with it before he loses the ability for conscious thought. Hermann's managed to keep his hand tight around them, and the feeling of their come, mingling and flowing between them, is just too much to handle. 

Newt shouts and then buries his face in Hermann's shoulder, his glasses falling off properly this time. But it doesn't matter anymore. He's never going to forget the image of Hermann's face like that. Never.

They continue to rock together for a moment, riding out the last crest together. Just as his muscles are about to give out, Newt rolls over and falls onto his back with a thump. He stares up at the exposed beams of the ceiling, the desk lamp casting all sorts of odd shadows. He's not sure what he should say. If he should say anything at all. Hermann has shifted, pulled away slightly, but it doesn't feel like a rebuff. He just needs his space. Newt can understand that. What they just did was more than a little overwhelming.

He reaches over and squeezes Hermann's hand, finding it sticky and clammy, and laughs. Hermann squeezes back, and Newt knows everything's going to be fine.

"So, uh. Yeah." _Oh, very smooth, Geiszler._

"Thank you, Newt."

Newt raises his head up off his arm and goggles. "What did you just call me?"

Hermann's shrug is unrepentant and cocky.

"You're going to be impossible to work with from now on, aren't you?"

"Considering that you have always been impossible to work with, I think this is a fair tradeoff."

Newt can't argue with that one. In the semi-dark, he watches Hermann clean himself off fastidiously, with a bloody cotton handkerchief. Where had he even got that? He folds it so the clean side is facing out and hands it to Newt, who does a half-assed job of wiping himself off before dropping it on the floor.

"So, I guess you'll be going back to your room now?"

The look on Hermann's face plainly says _You are an insufferable idiot_. "What, and go back to those awful noisemakers? I'm afraid not. Move over."

Newt doesn't even try to hide the grin that crosses his face as he shifts to the side of the bed.


End file.
